Kitchen Wench

Well, it’s that time of year again. It’s nearly Christmas and suddenly all the things that I’ve been trying to get done leading up to this moment still aren’t done and I find myself just sort of… giving up. For two days I’ve been in this fog; I can’t remember half of what’s on my To Do List (or maybe my brain is just blocking it out) and I’ve thrown my hands up at getting those remaining people presents. None of us really needs anything, I don’t have the time or will to shop, and this year, I really don’t have very much money and the economic forecast is not looking so rosy.

The thing is, the money, cooking, cleaning, and shopping stress isn’t really what’s at the heart of this. Really, it just comes down to that impending sense of doom–that all this effort is really just leading up to several suffocating hours trapped in the same room as your entire extended family. All I want to do is cook the amazing spread I have planned and then hide in my room with my dinner plate. And, this is really selfish, but I really want to cook what I want, regardless of whether certain people have the gall to complain about it. We host Christmas every year and if I’m going to entertain you in “my” own house, I expect that you will respect the effort that I have put into planning a menu (yes, a menu where the dishes were carefully selected) and not complain that maybe your favorite vegetable or meat was not featured this year.

I don’t think this is a matter of feeling underappreciated–I don’t really want to start having Christmas at someone else’s house because I like that my dad and I do the cooking. For one, I can’t stand the thought of eating bad food at Christmas. For two, I sort of feel like if you have some people who have a clear standout skill, it makes sense to let them do what they do best. It’s sort of like my “gift”, I guess. Really, I think I just want some appreciation for “the art” of the Christmas meal. The thought, the time, the work, the tradition! C’mon people, I just want a little RESPECT! *overdramatic head toss*

Seriously, as frustrated as I’ve felt for the last 24 hours, I have come to some more productive conclusions. You can’t please everybody, and your family is probably the toughest audience of all because you didn’t pick them. I can choose my friends, usually based on the fact that we have common interests or otherwise understand each other. There’s no point in twisting myself out of shape for someone who is never going to be satisfied, be it with my salmon or with my political views. It’s easier to say you’ll grow a thicker skin than to actually do it, of course. But I have to start somewhere, and it might as well be over a piece of fish.

I sometimes cling fervently (maybe even a little irrationally) to certain traditions. One which I particularly lament the loss of is that of a home cooked turkey on Thanksgiving. As of late, it seems that more and more of our dinner is coming not from the homes of my relatives, but from the likes of Byerly’s grocery store, or, better yet, the local Chinese restaurant.

This Thanksgiving, the House of Yue dined on turkey from the House of Wong and House of Wu Chinese restaurants. House of Wong supplied a traditional American-style turkey, while House of Wu prepared a turkey with traditional Chinese seasoning. The House of Wu turkey was greatly favored over House of Wong, which came as little surprise. And that’s when it hit me.

We’re just a bunch of Chinese people trying to awkwardly celebrate an American holiday.

I keep finding myself torn between what I consider stereotypically “traditional” and what actually jives with my relatives—for instance, my aunt eschews pie but asked if we could make some concoction of sticky black rice, coconut milk, shaved ice, and fresh mango that she discovered in the Hong Kong airport a few weeks ago. While this does sound pretty tasty (especially with a side of Chinese turkey), it’s certainly not Thanksgiving in the purest sense of the word. I may not even like pumpkin pie, but shouldn’t there be pumpkin pie at dinner? Like most holidays, whatever the “true meaning” or historical context is subsumed by the meal that brings us all together. What is Thanksgiving without the turkey, cranberries, sweet potatoes, pie, and that disgusting green been casserole with french onions?

As I get older, I’ve realized a few things. This year, I reaffirmed my dislike of pumpkin pie, preferring a slice of Chinese egg custard. I also realized that I’d prefer a good steak to a dry hunk of turkey, but a piece of Beijing roast duck would be even better. Last Thanksgiving I found myself backpacking across China, where I ate so much spicy lamb, grilled corn, and deep fried glutinous pumpkin cakes (the closest I could get to pie) that I was violently sick the rest of the following day. I still find myself fantasizing about that meal, but turkey and gravy has yet to spark any pangs of deep-seated longing. Perhaps tradition is overrated after all.